


old habits die hard

by kuro49



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here they are, thinking something along the lines that they might deserve each other after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	old habits die hard

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely based on that single throwaway line that they really did throw out from the final theatre cut. I am just the biggest sucker for this Alfred, my favoritism has never been more blatant, so here is porn.

 

When the flesh of his shoulders makes contact, Alfred doesn't bother with hiding his wince. It is a dull heavy thud of a collision that almost has Alfred recoiling back from the startling cold of the glass if Bruce isn't already on him, one knee tucked between his legs, pressing forward like he is asking him to spread his thighs apart for him without the words. He is pressing in from all sides, reverent like this is that very first time he's allowed him to finally _touch_.

Alfred thinks he is much too old to play this game but Bruce hasn't relented just yet when he only keeps him locked inside this space between them, crowding further in.

For an old, stubborn fool like him (like them both really), it is probably on principle alone that he is still holding on just as tight.

On nights like these, Alfred just feels like rigor mortis has set in and he is bound to him even in death. There is very little to love, he learns in all his years serving the Wayne House, that is not obligation.

“Too much?” Bruce lifts his head to ask. His eyes are hidden in the dark even with the cowl off, the room shrouded in the colour black, and Bruce feels more comfortable than he cares to admit when he gets to touch and touch and Alfred hasn’t made him take this to the bed just yet.

Admittedly, Alfred still sees Bruce as that little boy sometimes, scrapped elbows and bruised knees, but most definitely not at this moment. Not when he is pressed back against the glass in a house made of it, Bruce’s mouth hot against his as he kisses him and he kisses back, parting wider when Bruce licks into his mouth, draws his tongue in to bite down softly on the swell. Even with the lights off, he can see the ugly sight of mottled bruises and scabbed over cuts all across Bruce.

Alfred is stubborn enough to ignore the thought that says one of these days Bruce wouldn’t come back at all.

Relief ebbs away into desperation like a penny scrapping against the gold foil of a scratch card as he swallows down that low gut-turning noise of need that is only beginning to build.

“I didn’t think you understand the meaning of too much, sir.”

Maybe this is where they draw their differences, in between kiss after kiss drawn out by their tongues and his fingers lingering even as he is stripping him out of the rest of his clothes. It is familiar, even if it really shouldn't be, like a natural part of their day. Alfred is afraid there are probably a few choice words he can call this, but Bruce isn't listening, he hasn't been listening for a long time now. Alfred likes to press even if he has the strength to push instead, Bruce is shoving even if a push would suffice.

“I haven’t even gotten started, Alfred.”

The view from the lake house is still one Alfred can’t get used to, the hint of promise in Bruce's tone though, that much is not news. Night after night, when the sun goes down and all they are left with is a fire burning at the other end of the room and the water looking not one bit disturbed. Night after night, he stays instead of heading anywhere else.

Here they are, thinking something along the lines that they might deserve each other after all.

If Bruce ever has the morbid sense of humour to ask if it is a sense of responsibility that keeps Alfred here, Alfred doesn’t think he is still kind enough to lie to a grown adult man years passed his prime. Bruce never does ask, and maybe that is for the best, because Alfred is hardly about to start looking for work elsewhere. He really is decades too old for this. But he isn’t just humouring Bruce Wayne when he is on his knees in the middle of his bed.

He thinks he might be testing how long he, himself, will last too.

The sheets are sex soaked, and isn’t he going to have a great time changing out this bed when he can get his legs to work again. It is wet with sweat, in spit and precum that leaks and leaks from the head of his cock. There are streaks of lube smeared across his inner thigh and some more still dripping from where Bruce is dragging his fingers out. His charge lets out a low, breathy groan at the sight beneath him like he is the one being stuffed full and beginning to feel impatient for more.

He pushes back for good measures, and earns them both a spread of pleasure that barely keeps his thighs from shaking.

“This is not my first time, sir.”

With the accent, the reminder that he hardly needs to be so careful with him comes across a little less crass than what it could be. At least he isn’t telling him that he isn’t about to _break_ him. But it is still downright indecent when Bruce steadies him with one hand on his lower back and presses in with just enough warning to have Alfred digging his blunt nails into the sheets with a gasp coming from somewhere deep inside of his throat.

“So how many times would this make us?”

Alfred bites out a groan and it is matched with another thrust of Bruce's hips that drives his cock deeper still inside of him. But who really is keeping count?

Alfred is on his knees, breathing through his mouth, and he doesn’t want to call it panting because he hasn’t given up that last shred of control just yet. Bruce settles behind him, his hips pressing against his arse as he bottoms out. Even if his hair is mussed and in his eyes, even if it feels like he has been taken apart and put back together in earnest, Alfred finds himself giving in like it is instinct.

“…Far more than what this old man can handle.”

There isn’t just a little bit of love here. There is much more than that.

“Now you are just being modest, Alfred.”

Even if the words come, Bruce doesn’t sound like he is faring any better. Alfred is all heat, tight around him. His spine is pulled taut and Bruce is tempted to cover him in bruises the shape of his teeth and fuck the man slow and hard enough to tire him out so Bruce can finally be the one to take care of him for once.

He thinks _family_ might not be the right word to use when he is fucking him into the mattress, the only thing keeping Alfred from pressing his face into the pillows with every thrust are his elbows tucked beneath his head that is still keeping him up. He thinks _family_ even though he probably shouldn't when it comes to Alfred Pennyworth because he has fought far harder for things far less important than what Alfred is to him.

He smoothes a palm down Alfred’s spine, over the curve of his shoulders and across every scar that marks his body from before Bruce's ever even met him and follows it with the press of his mouth.

“Modest,” Alfred bites back at the new angle as Bruce drapes himself over him, “is not the word I would use here.”

Bruce laughs, and it is a rumbling thing that erupts across his skin and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

He tells him _harder_ , like he has ever gone easy on him, and he obliges.


End file.
